


A Taste of Honey

by Spencer5460



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-12
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-06-08 00:27:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6831541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spencer5460/pseuds/Spencer5460
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since Sherlock had moved to the country and away from Baker Street, it had been a long time since John had felt as though London were home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Taste of Honey

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "Older Not Dead" LJ Community Prompt 24 "Gifts." Sherlock/Watson: "Sherlock gives Watson his first batch of honey."

**A Taste of Honey**

No one had met him at the train station. He’d been forced to walk all the way, a good two miles, lugging his suitcase that insisted on bumping against his bad leg no matter how many times he switched hands. It was just like Sherlock to be engrossed in research of some sort even here in Sussex, John mused, despite the fact that Sherlock had retired from his detective work several years ago. John’s scheduled arrival that day must have completely slipped his mind.

Now, though, John smiled rather than gritted his teeth as he thought of his friend lost in cataloging the various shades of heather that colored the hillside or the patterns of butterfly wings. He’d grown used to his friend’s singular idiosyncrasies over the years. It was a tradeoff that had revealed itself as they’d matured. They’d lost their youthful strength and vigor in exchange for a particular peace and acceptance of the way things were. He had accepted Sherlock’s distractions and, in turn, Sherlock had accepted John’s inclinations toward the romantic and sentimental.

“Sherlock,” John called out from the front door. Met with silence but prodded by fatigue, he took it upon himself to enter the villa on his own. It was a hospitable, though not luxurious residence, similar to the several others he’d passed on his trek. But it lacked a woman’s touch, he noted with bittersweet nostalgia. Although John had grown used to being a widower and had no inclination to marry again, it was times like these he felt something lacking. Perhaps the smell of freshly baked bread or cheerful flowers in a vase would make one feel more as though they were coming home.

Since Sherlock had moved to the country and away from Baker Street, it had been a long time since he’d felt as though London were home. But John respected Sherlock’s need for the peace and quiet of Sussex to calm the spinning complexities of his mind. And although Sherlock had accepted his sentimentalism, John doubted he had fully embraced it. To write of his longing for Sherlock’s companionship would be wasted, even embarrassing, words.

He’d been looking forward to this visit for months. The thought that Sherlock hadn’t met him at the train, hadn’t even been home to offer him a cup of tea, was a bit disconcerting. Indeed, something vicious grabbed at his heart and squeezed. It was an undefinable _something_ he thought – no, hoped - he’d long since left behind. Perhaps their relationship had been distressingly one-sided after all.

John gazed around at the simple, though comfortable furniture, the stacks of books and periodicals that overflowed from the shelves and tables onto the floor, trying to deduce, as he had been taught, what had occurred there in the hours before his arrival. A couple of plates lay in the sink, a cup with the remains of morning tea sat on the kitchen table.

“You see but you do not observe,” John could still hear Sherlock chide him from early in their association.

He looked into the bedroom, expecting to find it as rumpled as the rest of the house, but was surprised to note that the bed had been perfectly made up. Its freshly laundered bedding still held the faint smell of starch. The pillows had been carefully plumped. Two candles stood aligned on the bureau, waiting to be lit. Pears filled a bedside bowl.

The open window let in a light sea breeze. From it he could see out to the garden’s array of daisies, poppies, lavender and foxglove. The Seven Sisters’ chalky cliffs dropped down to the sea in the distance.

Beyond the garden was a stand of apple and pear trees heavy with late summer fruit. A tall figure, ghostly in white from head to toe, moved purposefully among the trees carrying what looked to be trays. Although the figure’s face was obscured with draping fabric, John let go a slight sigh. He recognized his movement well. Sherlock with his bees. Naturally.

*******************************

Sherlock had been waiting nearly two years and he wasn’t by nature a patient man. But once he turned his passion from crime solving to beekeeping, he’d schooled himself to excellence, as he had in so many other things.

Sherlock had observed that first-year beekeepers are lucky if they get a small yield of honey by late summer. He’d learned that new colonies need a full season or more to build up a large enough population to create a surplus of the golden droplets. A truly exceptional harvest takes several years before one can fully reap its sweet rewards. 

While there was a science to the making of honey, there was a miracle to it as well that even he, The Great Sherlock Holmes, could not deny. He’d finally accepted that some things can never be completely explained. But just because something can’t be explained didn’t mean it shouldn’t be experienced or enjoyed.

So he’d waited expectantly. Some things were worth waiting for.

And now the last major nectar flow of the season had come to an end, the hive was nearly fully capped and John had arrived.

From his vantage point in the orchard Sherlock had seen him trudge up the road. A tiny pang of guilt stabbed at him that he hadn’t met him at the train. But once John understood the reason, he’d no doubt John would forgive him, the way he’d had so many times before. 

By the time he got back to the cottage, John had fallen asleep, stretched out on the bed, his jacket unbuttoned and one shoe kicked off. Sherlock sat down next to him, not knowing if it was the sinking of the mattress or his hand brushing his hair off John’s forehead that caused him to wake. 

“Sherlock,” John started to get up but Sherlock merely helped divest him of his jacket before pressing him back. 

“I have something for you.” He said and relished the curiosity in John’s eyes. Ah, that quick mind, that noble spirit, that soft heart. How he’d missed him. The one person who made him feel human, which he'd discovered wasn’t always such a bad thing to be.

Sherlock reached over to the bedside table and picked up a dish that held a chunk of glistening honeycomb and a slice of pear. 

“Here, John, is the fruit of my leisured ease, the magnum opus of my latter years.* I wanted you to be the first to taste it.” He held the honeycomb to John’s lips and John took a bite.

“Behold the fruit of pensive nights and laborious days, when I watched the little working gangs as once I watched the criminal world of London.”* He observed how John’s tongue sought out the sticky sweetness that lingered on his lips.

“But how much more would I rather watch you.” Sherlock leaned in quickly and captured John’s mouth before either of them could think further. He tasted the honeycomb’s remains and then all he tasted was John and that was even sweeter still.

“I missed you in London,” John admitted shakily when after a minute he pulled away.

“I’ve missed you everywhere.” Sherlock replied.

“Then it seems I was wrong.”

“Wrong about what?” Sherlock’s eyebrows lifted the way they did when he was perplexed. After all, he’d felt John’s passion in the past minutes as surely as he’d felt his own over the past years.

John looked at him and smiled. “It’s not the smell of baked bread or sight fresh flowers that makes one feel as though they’ve come home. It’s the sweetness of the long wait being over.” He took another taste of the delights Sherlock offered then pulled him back onto the bed.

**FIN**

*”His Last Bow” by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle


End file.
